SKy a White

November 4, 2010

Underneath the blankets of
the night and all the stars,
There, at the heart of darkness,
lies, a land of many scars,

Your memory may lead you there,
The truth will be your guide,
Wounds once grown flesh over
Will open up inside,

and blood will flow,
As it did when,
the hurt was still awake,
Now in the land
Of sleep only,
Does such, the nerve-strings, shake.

The moon a blue,
the sky a white,
the sea a bitter red,
The green that once was grass to us,
has turned to black instead,

and all the fires,
of man’s desires,
can find no fuel to feed
Fatherless hopes of all those “good”
Turn helpless hearts to greed.

There are no nights,
there are no days,
there is only time of moon,
Ice knocks at heart.
The porter runs,
and soon,
and soon,
and soon…

This, a sorrow of sights,
of sorts,
for there be no sun, to free,

The moon from its darkness,
In faith they feel.
The red, the bitter red sea

Ebbs, flows, but soon, none will will to care.
And lungs will beg for quenching air,

But minds will crawl to oblivion,
in search of worth for souls.
Scraping the bottoms of bowls,
Crying out for halves of holes.
As blind in the light as moles,

Having rejected their sense of sense,
Denying the inquiry “whence?”

Backs turned
To faith in air,


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